


Variables

by RussianWitch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 11:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6077214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No man is an island, not even an a peninsula.<br/>Reese reaches out, Harold has to think before reaching back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Variables

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'd

Harold feels himself watched, quite an interesting sensation considering he's constantly watched by the Machine.

This feels different, more organic, in an unquantifiable way, not non-threatening exactly, but less disconcerting than he'd expect from the sensation. Looking up from the newspaper he's been enjoying while taking advantage of the weak spring sun, Harold effortlessly spots Reese positively lounging against the banister that keeps the strolling population from plunging into the river.

Reese hasn't even made any effort to hide, probably wanted Harold to notice him. He is drinking something obnoxiously pink, yet somehow managing to look intimidating while sucking up fluids through an equally pink straw, smirking obnoxiously at Harold in reward for finally spotting him.

'Arrogant bastard' Harold uncharitably thinks, then reminds himself that the arrogance is part of the parcel he needs to get things done. He can't afford to alienate Reese, not when the man is more than willing to function as Harold's weapon, and it surprisingly suitable to the purpose. Reese might not be particularly moral, or good, but he isn't outright bad and not ruled by greed for either money or power which makes him the best candidate for the job overall.

That he is also the only candidate Harold dared risk approaching after the previous debacle, is immaterial, that Harold should have saved the woman Reese loved—a secret he will take to his grave.

Now that he's been noticed, Reese detaches himself from the railing stalking towards Harold. Two young women occupying the next bench giggle and preen, by the look of them Reese could have fathered either, or possibly both of them, still they are flattered by his perceived attention and shocked when instead of coming over to them Reese drops onto the bench next to Harold leaning in to squint at his paper.

"What'ch reading that's got you so distracted, Finch? I expected you to spot me ten minutes ago," Reese's lips, and thus his teeth as well far too close to Harold's throat, to the girls on the other side it must look like Reese is doing something indecorous and inappropriate in public.

"Simply checking on my investments, Mr. Reese," he answers, despite the paper clearly showing the cultural section, "would you like some tips for your own portfolio?" He suppresses a shiver at the dry chuckle that answers his question, annoyance surging along with the urge to see the expressions on the faces of bystanders, to see the judgment and speculation there.

"Why are you following me now?" Reese knows his routine: this is Harold's lunch break, and he will be heading back to the library and nowhere interesting, no opportunity for Reese to learn anything new.

"There haven't been any numbers for weeks," the spy huffs, his tone making a strange idea form in Harold's mind.

"You are stalking me because you're—bored?" He hasn't been paying much attention to Reese's activities when the man wasn't out doing his job, but even with Reese's deceased status, Harold had expected him to find something to amuse himself with. It seems that he'd been wrong in not paying closer attention.

"Well, the numbers are sort of my day job, and aside from the various governments, there isn't a lot of demand for my particular skill set in legitimate circles." Reese reminds him sweetly. 

"Would you like me to provide you with an alternative?" He isn't sure how he would manage it, perhaps ask the Machine to look for numbers outside of New York? Give Reese some travel time to keep him occupied—

"I'll take some company instead," another thing Harold hasn't seen coming. Reese didn't strike him as the social type, Harold had thought that the need for that type of interaction, for intimacy had been mostly trained out of the spy over the years by all the institutions who had previously owned him. To be confronted with the need, being the target of it is unnerving, almost terrifying, something he'd not really experienced since—Nathan.

Nathan had been his friend for such a long time, had tolerated all of Harold's idiosyncrasies and stuck by Harold even when disappointed with him. Harold had never thought he'd need anyone else, until Grace and meeting he still considers an anomaly in the world as a whole. After leaving Grace, Harold hadn't expected to find himself in similar circumstances ever again, not that Reese can be compared to Grace in any way or shape.

"I'm afraid, I'm not exactly proficient at 'company'." He says.

"That's okay, I'm not exactly proficient either," Harold can't do anything but agree after all Reese has no concept of personal space for example or tact..."Now that that's clear, how about dinner? You can entertain me by not telling me more about yourself."

By now Reese is so close, Harold feels the heat of his breath warning his skin pleasantly: it tickles against the shell of his ear and leaves the back of his neck annoyingly chilled by contrast.

"I'm almost tempted to wish the Machine would present us with a number right this moment," he glares, and finally Reese draws back, his face turning the familiar neutral mask. The man is standing, turning away to retreat before Harold realizes how his words have been interpreted.

"Sorry to have bothered you, Finch," the tall man's voice has turned cold and somewhat mechanical, closed off to an extent that Harold hasn't experienced—, since the very first day and not even then, not like this. He hadn't realized just how much Reese had thawed until the man ices over again. Part of him wants to call Reese back, but the man is fast and far enough away that he'd have to raise his voice and draw attention to himself calling out. Harold considers pursuit, but Reese's long legs are eating up the sidewalk and while this wouldn't have been a problem in the past these days Harold has no illusion about his ability to keep up.

Shame proves a curious emotion, he discovers sometime later, one he's rarely experienced and always found useless, yet somehow inescapable. It stays with him for the rest of the day, along with an oppressive sort of silence. Strange to realize that while they didn't see each other, sometimes for days on end, there had been a constant stream of communication flowing between them up until now. Reese's soft comments in his ear kept Harold perpetually aware of the spy as he roams the city exploring and patrolling. Reese's walks always remind Harold of those of large cats constantly on the move checking the borders of their territories leaving fresh marks to remind trespassers they will be found and dealt with. Now, Reese is silent, holed up in a cheap hotel that doesn't invest anything in internal security putting him out of Harold's reach.

Harold waits two days for the feeling to pass, or for Reese to leave his lair and attempt another overture, but neither happens. He finds himself examining the situation over and over trying to see the most efficient solution to the situation. There are two ways to handle this situation as far as he can see:

  1. Allow Reese to stay away until another number comes up, and Harold needs his skills again. Never mention the covert offer again and keep things professional. Protect both of them from the dangers of emotional entanglement and the unavoidable consequences of it. The upside of this would be the preservation of the status quo, the weighty downside, that Reese could attempt to walk away realizing his desires are futile and forcing Harold to take measures.
  2. Summon Reese and, apologize? Make himself available for seduction? Allow Reese to use him as an emotional crutch, allow him close; closer perhaps than he'd ever let Grace. Close enough to ensure Reese will never contemplate leaving. Harold would have his operative, Reese's needs would be satisfied, the risk to the operation would be substantial—If Harold grows attached, more attached than he already is, his ability to function will be seriously affected if anything does happen to John.



There are various options in between the two extremes: shades of grey, all possibilities dependent on various external factors that have come to rule their lives. Some would involve bringing in third parties, creating a situation that would need extensive monitoring and possibly direct and uncomfortable intervention. Other options would involve playing on Reese's traumas: isolating him further emotionally, destroying the last reserves of trust in humanity the man is clinging to. He can do a better job of bringing Reese to heel than his previous handlers: turn the man into the perfect weapon. The later would be most efficient—Harold shivers at the thought of dealing with a dead-eyed Reese day in, day out. Even if it would serve the greater good of helping the rest of humanity, Harold can barely think of implementing this option. The sacrifice of one relatively good man is insignificant compared to the thousands of lives they could save without distractions, yet thinking of it makes him physically ill.

He runs through various scenarios while pretending to be a corporate drone, discards some and reconsiders other while going through the motions and researching numbers the Machine delivers which do not require Reese's assistance, maintaining various connections the Machine needs to function efficiently and all the while fighting the urge to check if Reese has shown up somewhere Harold can see.

If he had been dealing with a human, Harold would suspect the Machine of trying to manipulate the situation, but a computer program cannot care about such trivialities as emotions. It was taught the basics: red flags to watch out for, the DSM definitions of psychological conditions which may influence individuals who influence events, as much Harold himself knows of 'hacking' people and how to read them, examples of normal and outlying behaviors and hours upon hours of tests. Harold still isn't sure what the Machine makes of them all, irrational and flawed as they are, but he's done the best he can and considering the success range— "Careful, Harold. You might strain something thinking that hard."

Reese's voice right behind him startles Harold hard enough that his body attempts to jump, overbalancing in the middle of an ill-advised turn to face the intruder into his workspace. If it wasn't for Reese's reflexes, he would have ended up sprawled on the floor. As is, Harold is deposited back in his chair by strong hands. Reese's grip is a little too hard, the spy, most likely, is still angry at the perceived rejection, but that doesn't get in the way of him saving Harold from harm.

"Mr. Reese—," he doesn't know what to think, or what to say: Reese's presence is unexpected, it forces his hand while not all options have been properly examined. Harold hates improvising when something this important is at stake, so vital to the success of his plans.

"Don't!" The spy interrupts before he can formulate a proper greeting, leaving Harold gaping, caught between conflicting impulses once again. Reese disappears into the stacks coming back with two bags clanking with, Harold assumes, his usual gear. Harold is almost sure there was only the one last time he saw the 'supplies', but Reese has a talent for smuggling new, and progressively more terrifying weapons into the library despite any and all voiced objections.

Having a killer at his back with a heap of guns makes Harold's spine itch, not that he believes that Reese would be capable of well—, Reese is capable of taking revenge, but he's also honorable and not that petty.

"I fear, I've left you with an erroneous impression," he says ignoring the unspoken warning not to try again. The man behind him stills, the space filling with ominous silence. Now that he's been forced to set a course Harold presses on despite the danger.

"I did warn you: I am not well versed in social interaction. Part of that is needing sufficient time to examine, and analyze the consequences of any—changes in my interpersonal relationships," he explains, skirting the subject of any kind attachment from his side for the moment, "the thought of losing the few relationships I allow myself—is highly uncomfortable."

"You mean, you're terrified I'd walk away?" Reese questions from right behind Harold making the nape of his neck itch terribly.

"If you want to simplify it?" Harold sighs, "yes." He grudgingly confirms shivering when a satisfied huff sounds behind him. Unwilling to give Reese even more of an advantage, Harold spins his chair, forcing the man to step back or get knocked into. He looks up at Reese towering over him: a slight frown on his brow and head cocked to the side as he looks down on Harold like he's a puzzle to be solved. Reese has taken off his jacket to clean the guns, he is standing there only in a pristine white shirt, sleeves rolled up messily to keep them from getting oil on them.

Harold fights the distraction of the knowledge that the soft white cotton and little plastic buttons are the only things separating him from Reese's skin, a shirt that Harold has picked out for him. Reese's eyes burn with something Harold hasn't seen in them before, wouldn't expect to see directed at himself by most people. His hand twists into Reese's shirt without Harold's say so, he gives a sharp yank on the fabric and Reese falls to his knees between Harold's legs. Awkwardly, he leans down to tasting the hard mouth that's been haunting him for a week, licks and nips at Reese's lips until he knows the taste of them almost as well as his own.

The spy's drugged moan chills Harold to the bone and sets him on fire all at the same time. The tortured sound makes his hands tighten on Reese's shoulders. The way Reese accepts the kiss: submits to Harold's invasion and exploration with enthusiasm instead of protest makes Harold greedy for more. None of the hypothetical situations he'd considered, involving any and all versions of option two, featured this particular configuration. He's barely given any thought to—this: assumed Reese would prefer to be the one in control and practically forget all about this.

For once he enjoys being very, very wrong.

When Harold finally succumbs to the need for air, Reese annoyingly doesn't even look ruffled. 'Soldier's stamina', Harold reminds himself with mild resentment tracing a sharp cheekbone. Reese shamelessly leans into his touch, bright blue eyes falling shut as he nuzzles Harold's palm, his breath warm and wet on Harold's skin.

"What would you require of me?" Harold blurts unnerved by the surrender, desperate to know how to satisfy the need pouring out of every pore of the man's skin. Reese mumbles a curse, his hands tightening on Harold's thighs. He surges up, gets right in Harold's face dangerous and distant once more need turning into anger.

"I don't 'require' anything, Harold! I would _like_ to be your friend. Maybe you letting me make you come would be nice, but general companionship would do," despite his anger, Reese sways closer, his hands sliding forward until they are framing Harold's groin heavy and hot even through the wool of his pants. In a way, Harold can understand him: sex is easier than true intimacy, so considering Reese's background choosing to offer sex when his offer of friendship has been rebuffed makes sense, it costs less.

Reese's hands so close to his crotch make it difficult to think coherently for Harold: he should stop the man kneeling before him. Reassure Reese that he'll try harder to give him the companionship he seeks, but that would mean that Reese might pull away or seek out someone else, and Harold doesn't want that even if words to ask Reese to stay escape him. These thoughts distract him enough that Reese leaning down to nuzzle at the zipper of his pants is shocking, hot breath caressing his skin even through his clothing arousing beyond measure.

"Oh dear, Reese—," he can't make himself let go, can't bring himself to push Reese away before they do something indecent, "—, John!" Everything is going too fast, and not according to Harold's expectations, but stopping or even slowing down is no longer an option. His head is spinning from just one kiss and Reese's shameless invasion of his privacy.

"Do you like this, Finch?" Reese—John, purrs against his groin, lips tracing the shape Harold's penis through the layers of fabric, teasing with every word. Reese's stubble catches and rasps against the wool of Harold's trousers, his fingers pluck at his belt picking it open with clear intent.

"John!" He urges tugging at John's ear and only getting an annoyed growl in return. Reese ignores the weak tugs mutinously burrowing closer. "Mr. Reese!" Harold finally snaps, horrified by the thought of possible damage random bodily fluids and impulsive actions can do to his workstation.

Either the formal address or Harold's body going rigid under his hands finally snaps Reese out of his haze. To Harold, he looks drunk when their eyes meet. "Finch?" He slurs, but Harold is distracted by the way Reese—John's eyes have gone dark: only a thin sapphire edge hinting at their true color that has occasionally had Harold remembering the farm and the endless, transparent skies above the empty fields he hasn't returned to for longer than he'd lived there.

Eyes which remind Harold dangerously of home.

"We're not proceeding here!" He declares bending down awkwardly, ignoring the protests of his spine, to kiss John on the mouth, keeping it up until the man relaxes against him. "If you'd be so kind as to remove the clutter, I'll finish up and we can start with dinner somewhere civilized." The way John's nose wrinkles at the prospect of a 'civilized' evening is disturbingly endearing.

"Can't we just order in?" The soldier grumbles obediently rising to do as he's been told.       

"How would you explain that the delivery is to be made to an abandoned building?" One of them could go out and retrieve the food, but the library doesn't strike Harold as conducive to any intimate dealings. "No, if you want company—I insist on relocating," he decides, omitting that the interlude will give both of them a moment to regain their composure. Give John the opportunity to change his mind—, "I promise, you won't find the location—odious."

How John manages to look appealing while handling guns, Harold will never understand. Harold powers down everything the Machine doesn't need when he's away, cleaning up after himself and by the time he's finished, John has packed all the guns up except for the ones he habitually carries. Harold hates admitting even to himself that he likes the sight of John's hands as he works. How careful John's fingers are on the weapons: almost loving as he checks every part, secures the safety and puts them away one after another. Harold wonders if those fingers will be as careful with his body. Pushing those thoughts away, he gets his coat and hat while Reese disappears into the stacks hiding his arsenal somewhere around the letter 'T'.

With so much between them, even leaving the library feels different. For a moment Harold fears that John is going to offer him an arm to lean on or something of the like, but Reese settles for inserting himself into Harold's precious personal space, taking up his customary position at Harold's side between him and the street. Two blocks down, they stop to call for a car and book a suite in one of Harold's preferred hotels. Reese looks faintly disappointed not to be taken to Harold's residence—and for a moment he's tempted to explain that he doesn't really have one, that there are safe houses and storage lockers he lives out of, that keeping an actual house would be far too permanent, too dangerous and far too distracting from his self-appointed task.

They don't talk during the ride over, not secure enough even with the partition separating them from the driver up. If their gloved hands brush on the seat between them, it can't be seen from outside of the car, so that is acceptable if not quite satisfying. The silence isn't uncomfortable, or not as uncomfortable as Harold would have expected it to be: the discomfort comes from arousal still churning in his gut and shooting along his nerves. Every time Harold glances at Reese, he's reminded of how long it has been since he has touched another human being or been touched by one. Being able to smell the scent of Reese's cologne, the ever-present hint of gunpowder that permanently clings to Reese even when he hasn't handled a gun for days and not being able to truly touch is an unexpected torment. Once Harold probably would have laughed if anyone suggested the scent of gunpowder on a person could be arousing. Now the scent mixed with the cologne means Reese, and Reese—Reese means security, companionship, redemption, and want.

Now it means safety and lust, maybe even—love. 

Lust is such a strange thing.

He'd gotten to know it well for a brief period while still at MIT, experimenting with various types of programming. People, he had discovered then, could be programmed as well as computers: solved like any other problem by careful application of the right algorithms and sequences of actions. Men, women, it hadn't mattered his code worked on everyone and as long as Harold could keep his experiment going he didn't really care about gender. Once Nathan had found out, it caused their first serious falling out and had almost broken their friendship then and there, had broken them until Harold promised to stop his experiments.

Stopping had meant putting away lust: shutting it in a back room of his mind to keep it out of the way, because Nathan and what they could do together had far more potential, had been far more important than physical satisfaction. He hadn't even really felt it with Grace: he'd loved her mind first and foremost, much of the rest had been an afterthought. He'd been drawn to her spirit and intelligence, and while the physical aspects of their relationship had been good— nothing Harold felt for her in that way ever came close to the way his body reacts to Reese's mere proximity now.

Once they are out of the car, Reese hesitates minutely before positioning himself at Harold's side half a step behind him. Someone seeing the two of them would assume Reese is Harold's bodyguard, or maybe some other type of hired help, but certainly not—of course, the persona that frequents this particular hotel isn't homosexual so Reese's discretion maybe for the best, but Harold finds he doesn't like it. He wants Reese—John at his side like a true partner, a petty part of him wants people to see them together. Wants to stick it to the people who have underestimated him and written him off most of his life. The attention he got at his cover job after Reese's visit had been gratifying in a way. Of course, he'd been annoyed by the questions and gossip, especially so by the need to find a new cover, but the incredulous resentment and new sort of respect for managing to cause someone like Reese to track him down in his place of work, it had been—nice. Especially considering the type of relationship they all automatically assumed to be taking place. When they enter the lobby he sees one or two of those same looks directed at them as he steers John towards the reception.

Reese stands far too close as Harold signs in and picks up the key card to the special elevators to the more exclusive floors. "You have to wonder who's being done a favor here," Reese says barely loud enough for Harold to hear while they wait, amusement clear in his voice as he memorizes the lobby. A lot of things amuse Reese, Harold muses, to keep his thoughts off the things that should not be done even in an extremely private elevator with a handsome man. He remembers being semi-permanently amused by humanity and all its faults, until Nathan's death, until he'd tried to see what Nathan saw in all the people Harold had viewed as means to an end.

Reese doesn't bother to keep his impulses at bay, once the doors are closed he turns on Harold with a feral grin crowding him into a corner. Leather clad fingers cup his cheek drawing Harold into a series of filthy kisses.

"Oh, dear—John!" Harold gets out while catching his breath, and John chuckles until Harold initiates another kiss. The elevator is slow enough that they are both lust-drunk and rumpled by the time it stops on the right floor. Harold finds that he's clutching at the back of John's belt, but can't remember burrowing his hands under the man's coat, just the feeling of tracing John's spine and the holster getting in his way. Reluctantly they manage to untangle themselves before the doors open completely, Reese takes his place at Harold's shoulder like nothing happened.

Harold can barely keep himself from turning to look at the man, mute with indecision he guides them to the suite door, thankful they don't encounter any employees. His hand shakes: it takes two tries before the key card slides into the lock and the door swings open. Once they are inside, they stall, aspirations and reality congealing into a sticky mess of good intentions and want. Harold sweats in his coat, wondering if option number one isn't preferable after all.

Option number one wouldn't have him worrying about adequacy, or being consumed by Reese's hunger for touch, losing focus and failing to honor Nathan's memory. John steps closer, gloved hands on his cheeks again, stroking the edge of his jaw and down to snag on the top button of his coat. "So—, what's for dinner?" John whispers in Harold's ear before stepping away to take off the coat. "You did promise, Finch."

The exasperating man hangs his coat, then wanders off into the sitting area to explore the rest of the rooms leaving Harold struggling with his own coat and getting his body under control. If Reese wants to eat, he decides, Harold is more than willing to feed him. Between the menu options and nearby restaurants willing to deliver, the temptation to show off is great, but after some consideration, he settles on simple fare from the hotel kitchen adding ice cream on a whim. Reese reappears just as he is thanking the receptionist for taking the order apparently satisfied with the security of the suit. He circles the sitting room like a curious cat finally stopping at the large windows that look out over the bay.

"Nice view," Reese offers, clearly ambivalent regarding his surroundings.

"Yes, it certainly is," Harold tries to get comfortable on the too wide couch, but even with additional pillows his spine protests the lack of support, keeping him shifting in search of a good position and wishing he was still whole. John takes his jacket off returning to his side, draping it across the back of a nearby chair as he passes despite Harold's glare. He perches on the arm of the couch, his hands finding their way onto Harold's shoulders to dig into almost permanently tight muscles.

"Food will be delivered shortly," Harold announces just to have something to say.

"Good," the spy tugs on Harold's tie playfully, seemingly content to amuse himself with messing up Harold's clothing while waiting for the promised food, "gives us time to get comfortable." He ignores Harold's twitch at the dig, one hand finding its way into the back of his collar, calloused fingers scratching down Harold's spine until they find the start of the surgical scars before heading back.

"Tell me what's allowed, Finch," John demands against his ear harsh and urgent.

"Allowed?" He wishes looking up at Reese was possible, but in their current position all Harold can do is lay a hand on Reese's knee, "haven't we discussed this already?"

"No, we didn't, actually." John points out, "You asked what I _required_ , not the other way around. What's in this for _you_ , Harold?" His dry-cleaner will try to kill him for destroying his suit, but John's hands on his shoulders are worth the sacrifice of one jacket.

"Your hands, I must admit being partial to them," the admission is almost painful to him, a secret he expected to keep forever, "your company—I'd almost forgotten how nice it can be to have someone around, how nice it is to touch," he strokes his hand up John's thigh feeling muscles tightening under his hand.

"Really? It's been that long?" John sounds somewhere between curious and sad. Grace flashing through Harold's mind, but that was different and he doesn't want to think about her. He can't have Grace, she's too innocent, to delicate to bring into his mission and now that there is John, Harold doesn't want to think about Grace at all, not with John's hands on him.

"Would you help me with my jacket?" John doesn't stop there, he gets Harold's shoes as well, leaving him in his socks and feeling positively rumpled.

"Relax, Harold," John pushes the remote to the television into his hands sliding off the armrest to settling next to him.

"I'm not sure I remember how," He's forced to admit ruthfully, practically purring when Reese sprawls out allowing Harold to brace against his chest instead of the mountain of cushions. Harold can't remember the last time he sat down to watch television. For once he doesn't know what to do with himself since he can't work, and with food on its way using one of his old algorithms on Reese is out of the question. Clicking around, he settles on an episode of Star Trek smiling at the memory of watching it for the first time and the potential it had represented then.

"Been a while since I've watched that," Reese comments.

"You never struck me as the type to like science fiction," maybe uncharitably, Harold has always imagined young Reese as one of the popular crowd who spent his evenings with friends and not the television.

"When you're deployed long enough," Reese reminds him, "you'll watch anything as long as it's new and won't remind you of where you are. I also happen to just like it." He slides down the couch a little, hooking his chin on Harold's shoulder the holster at his side digging in Harold's side uncomfortably, "especially the short skirts." He adds and Harold has to smother his laughter against John's lips. Of course, that leads to them making out on the couch like teenagers with the sounds of the television in the background. By the time a discreet knock lets them know the food has arrived, Harold is no longer fit to open the door: his mouth and cheeks tender from biting kisses and beard burn, shirt rumpled enough that it's probably a complete loss.

Reese looks just as untidy, but he doesn't seem to mind giving the delivery person an eyeful only bothering to dispose of the gun and holster before opening the door. Harold has seen Reese ruffled before and in worse condition besides, but being responsible for the man's dishabille is somehow different. Contentment warms Harold in a way he isn't quite familiar with, makes him want to do more: keep Reese permanently in this disheveled, almost happy state.

Wanting to keep things congenial, he resists the urge to demand they move to the dining table. Despite his silence, Reese seems to know what he's thinking draping a napkin across Harold's lap theatrically before passing over one of the plates. They eat watching television, their elbows brushing with every move, exchanging the occasional comment between bites when it suits them. John likes the ice cream and has the appalling habit of licking it off his spoon.

The next few kisses taste of vanilla and red wine and leave Harold moaning with pleasure. John seems to share the sentiment, wrapping himself around Harold as they watch a movie that mainly consists of things exploding, nipping at Harold's ear every time he tries to make a disparaging comment regarding the plot. Occasionally he rubs his nose along the nape of Harold's neck reminding him of a cat marking its territory. The gesture makes Harold wonder if John would be inclined to mark him like that all over and if he'll be allowed to mark John in return. The prospect of finding out warms him, makes Harold wish for more physical pursuits, but John is clearly enjoying himself.

"Harold?" John questions and Harold finds that he's too shy to admit he wants more. He looks away from the television, down at his own hand on John's thigh. John's hand covers his, intertwines their fingers and slowly drags their hands up to fold them around John's groin. Harold's shocked and pleased moan makes the flesh under his hand jump, and John's fingers around his tighten. He'd noticed John keeping some distance between their lower bodies while they were making out, but hadn't figured it was because the man was waiting for him.

"Harold, please—," the soldier groans, clearly impatient now that they are both on the same page. Harold needs a moment to process that John has left it up to him to set their pace: to decide when, or if they will proceed from what they have already done.

"Let's retire, John," He decides, rising, keeping hold of John's hand while leading them into the bedroom.

Stopping next to the bed, they undress each other slowly the rest of the way. Harold finds delight in baring broad shoulders by taking off John's shirt while John returns the favor tugging his shirt tails from Harold's trousers. Once they are naked to the waist, they can't resist leaning against each other, letting their hands roam each other's bodies satisfying the need to touch, getting drunk on the closeness. Somehow they manage to make it onto the bed with John kneeling over Harold, working his way down Harold's chest licking and sucking a trail along his skin.

"John, come here, please!" He gasps, when the touch becomes too much, the need to return the pleasure too great. He prods and pokes until John gets, somewhat reluctantly, with the program dragging himself forward.

With John straddling his chest, they are close enough that Harold's perception narrows down: all he can see, feel or smell is John's excitement. He strokes the hard shaft swaying in front of his face, exploring it carefully with his hands before taking John's penis into his mouth. He laps at the slick head to re-familiarizing himself with the taste and feel, before taking John deeper. The headboard behind his head groans, and even without looking, Harold knows that John's fingers are white where they dig into the wood with the strain of keeping still. He cups John's ass, kneads the hard globes in encouragement, pulls John closer slowly taking him deeper and deeper. John's panting and the wet sounds of his own sucking are the only sounds he hears as Harold fucks his throat with John's penis. Only when the need for air becomes overwhelming does he pull back, only to do it all over again keeping it up until John's muffled curses register along with his own name muttered over and over again like a mantra.

The one thing that's always annoyed him about fellatio, is that he can't talk when indulging. All Harold can do is caress John's body and try to stroke the tension out of the muscle. Try to tell John without words that it's alright, that Harold wants him to come just like this: watching John come apart with pleasure for him.

"Harold, please!" John moans, wrenching his hand off the headboard to rake his fingers through Harold's hair. He pulls off reluctantly, suppressing the urge to wipe his face panting with exertion. He's going to be hoarse in the morning, but for once doesn't care one bit.

"Please what, John?" John fingers tracing along his lips make talking difficult.

"Please, let me come!" The soldier snaps, wild with need.

Harold reaches up to caress his face, soothing John with his touch, "I would like that very much." He wants to take John in his mouth again, but the man pulls away stretching out along Harold's side. He wraps his hand around Harold's penis reminding him of his own need.

"I want to see you come too." He demands between bites along Harold's throat, tangling their legs together, so they can thrust against each other slick flesh sliding along slick flesh.

Harold's eyes fall shut, he has to fight not to miss the moment John finds his release cursing and shuddering against him. John collapses at his side with barely a gasp, and Harold commits the sight to memory his own raging need suddenly trivial in comparison. Before he can take himself in hand, John's hand returns wraps around him again coarse against sensitive flesh in all the right ways. John noses against his throat blindly his hand, tight and slick, on Harold's penis.

"Faster—," he demands all thoughts of propriety flying out of his head, throws his arms around John's neck digging his nails into John's back without meaning to, only thinking of keeping John close. His release leaves him dizzy and weak, his strength sapped barely coherent enough to pull John down for a kiss.

John slides out of his embrace, disappears from the room leaving Harold bereft and lost until he hears water running, realizing that John has only gone to clean up. He returns clean and with a damp towel, tossing it at Harold with a smirk, then stealing it away as soon as he's on the bed wiping up the mess they've made. Harold wants to ask if this is what John needed if John feels better now, but with the man cleaning him so carefully, then settling in with his arm thrown possessively around Harold's waist the question seems redundant.

Pushing away all lingering doubt now that he's committed to the course, Harold lays a hand over John's and listens to the soldier's breath evening out in sleep.


End file.
